


The Complaint Tent

by shirogiku



Series: Crack Tents [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Bad Jokes, Fix-It, Fuck You Jack, Gen, How Season 01 Should Have Gone, Pirate Problems, Season/Series 01, Sex Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing better than a fuck tent...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Complaint Tent

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Палатка для жалоб](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322664) by [rose_rose (Escargot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escargot/pseuds/rose_rose)



“The fuck is that, Jack?” Anne demands to know, rounding up on him like a one-woman boarding party ready to hack him into tiny pieces.

 

Always a promising start to a conversation - and, Jack is willing to bet his last good coat and tinted eyeglasses, it'll end with ‘fuck you, Jack’. It’s a shame he’s got no one to make money off that way, but hello, a new day has come. “That, my darling, is a tent, but I can see you aren’t in the mood for much foreplay. So let me just say, it _will_ revolutionise piracy as we know it.”

 

She squints at the crudely made sign sticking out of the sand.

 

“The paintwork could use a bit more, well, _work_ ,” he grants, “but I dare you to tell me you don’t like the catch phrase.”

 

The sign reads: ‘Nassau’s First And Only Complaint Tent’, and below, in a smaller lettering: ‘Bury all your complaints in the sand, where they belong’, the last three words looking a trifle squished.

 

“I don’t like it,” she says immediately.

 

“Moving on.” He puts his arm around Anne’s shoulders, but she shrugs it off as she shoves her way through the flap, “This is how it goes: you enter, you punch this,” he gestures at the  mannequin, “you complain to her,” Max waves a tiny shovel at them with the look of utmost martyrdom, “and she buries your complaints in the sand.” 

 

Anne blinks. “Fuck me, I thought they’d just kill you.”

 

“Max can still die from exhaustion,” she offers. “And the sand. Sand kills people, _ma chérie_.”

 

Jack wags a finger at her. “None of that talk, or the big shovel  _ will  _ be back.”

 

Anne’s confusion only multiplies. “But she’s right here, Jack! Why the fuck don’t they punch _her_?”

 

Jack drapes himself over the mannequin, which is dressed up in his worst best coat. “Haven’t you noticed the handsome face?” He has painted the sideburns across its cheeks and everything. “The moment they see it, nothing else matters. As for the _special_ cases…” He moves the screen aside, revealing a blonde stand-in and its  a ginger-haired mate with a passable moustache. “Max! _What_ did I tell you about keeping your hands to yourself in your work hours?”

 

“It wasn’t me,” she declares, a picture of innocence.

 

“More importantly...” Having adjusted Miss Guthrie’s wig, Jack perches himself on the chest containing the spare heads and other odds and ends. “What did _he_ say? He's already been, hasn’t he?”

 

“Let's see…” Max assumes the air of deep thought. “This tent is the stupidest fucking thing he's ever heard of, Eleanor punched him for calling her ‘love', and he wants to fuck Captain Flint.”

 

Anne makes a noise like a choked laugh.

 

“Nothing's new under the moon,” Jack replies philosophically. “But what did he say about _me_?”

 

Another pause, a yet longer one, during which Max watches Anne instead of her direct employer. Jack clears his throat. “ _Oui_ , yes,” Max purses her lips, “ _you_ are _the_ worst Quartermaster he’s ever had the misfortune of sailing with, and also very bad at sucking cock.”

 

“Say what?” And that is the precise moment when Jack realises that he has made a terrible, _terrible_ mistake - he has gone and handed Max the keys to even _more_ of the dirtiest secrets of everyone on this goddamn island. Anne, for her part, punches the poor Replacement Jack.

 

“The shit I have to deal with ‘cause of him,” she tells Max. “Alright, then, I want another go.”

 

Jack flings himself at the dummy, shielding it from her. “Nobody understands us, me! _Nobody_. Not even Odysseus! And nobody appreciates our ideas and creative urges!”

 

“Fuck you and your urges, Jack.”

 

There, just like clockwork.

 

There's some commotion at the entrance, in the form of Flint’s quartermaster and bosun. Uh-oh, this was _not_ supposed to happen so soon!

 

“Told you it was the right tent, Billy,” Mr Gates says to his companion brightly, pointing at Flint’s dummy. Then he turns to Jack. “How much?”

 

“I'm afraid we aren’t selling our, ah, completely harmless theatrical props. No offence intended, rest assured.”

 

“Who said anything about 'selling'?” They merely wish to get in line. “Do you charge per hour or per punch?”

 

Before Jack can recover his wits, Max is already talking, or rather, haggling like no tomorrow. Anne punches Jack. The other Jack.

 

It can be a fairly lucrative trade, if Jack does say so himself - the only problem being that he can’t pocket the earnings. _Yet_. The Rangers begin to grumble again, so he makes sure that  none of the other crews cut into their time until he sets up another tent.

 

In the wee hours of the morning, when everyone is supposed to be dreaming their sweetest dreams, Mr. Scott sneaks in and spends a whole hour lecturing Miss Guthrie on her reckless behaviour. Max takes notes. Jack rubs his eyes blearily, trying to pillow his head on Anne's bony shoulder.

 

_Captain Flint is glaring down at him._

 

Jack tries it all - starting with 'this is _Charles’s_ territory', which, in hindsight, might have come off as an encouragement to start something nasty - but then he notices what Flint has brought with him: a sort of a punching bag, with a flag wrapped snugly around it.

 

“England,” as Flint explains eloquently before marching in.

 

Jack _so_ isn't above eavesdropping, especially when the information in question is so potentially sellable.

 

“Nobody appreciates my little black tattoo and moustache,” is the dreaded captain’s actual complaint, “Do you even realise how hard it is to achieve this twirl in these miserable conditions? And keep those shirts white while you’re at it! A sheer fucking nightmare, that’s what this is!”

**Author's Note:**

> The mannequins/dummies probably look like something between the Eleanor doll we see on the show and [this](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r520/TheJoustingLife/Jousting%20Tournament%20Pictures/ArundelCastle2013/MarkCaple-CallumGilkes-dummy-Arundel2013-RichardPearn.jpg). Nobody (aka Odysseus only) knows how on earth he's arts-and-crafted them that quickly, or where he got the right glue for the moustache (TM).


End file.
